The Frog, the King, and the Waiting Man
by silvestras
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a dream. In that dream was a frog. Between the dream and reality was the king. And helpless, in the real world, was the waiting man. AU oneshot. FrUK, USUK. Warnings: weird way of writing fic, non-explicit sex, language.


**Title: **The Frog, The King, and The Waiting Man  
**Author/Artist: **Emelethaine  
**Character(s) or Pairing(s): **England, America, France, France/England, America/England, France-England, America-England  
**Rating: **PG-16**  
Warnings:** Non-explicit, implied sex, some language, weird way of writing a fic that defies grammar rules holy crap. Also, it's an AU.

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_Once upon a time, there was a dream. In that dream was a frog. Between the dream and reality was the king. And helpless, in the real world, was the waiting man._

The sheets are white, the bed is white, and the waiting man sits, gazing as the sleeping king, who is dreaming of a faraway frog.

_Arthur sleeps_

and is the ruler of his own country, of something so close yet out of reach. Each dream holds many days, yet when he wakes he finds out that he has only spent a night. He wakes and remembers nothing at all. The dreams, yes, but not what happened before it. Sometimes he thinks that the dreams are real, but he knows they're not because you don't wake up from reality. He wakes and writes another fairy-tale, a hand-spun lie, another story about a life he doesn't remember.

_His best friend Alfred_

visits every day to read his fantastical stories, his accounts of things that never happened. He smiles at Arthur, looks up into those green eyes, and yet they do not recognize him. Not once does he find himself in any of the stories, but in the end he always convinces Arthur to write another version with him in it. Alfred then tries to convince himself that this erase-and-rewrite routine is enough to keep their friendship alive, even if Arthur doesn't, never remembers.

_Arthur dreams_

and sees crystal palaces and ponds and jade-and-emerald lilypads, and he looks down from a balcony, down to his kingdom. It changes every day, every dream, every time he falls asleep, but it never fails to be there. One thing that doesn't change, though, is the blond young man who sits by the pond and waves every time he sees him. Arthur feels like he should know him, but he doesn't. So he walks past him, and the boy fades.

_Alfred wishes_

on falling stars made of glitter and cardboard, on four-leafed clovers cut out from flimsy green tissue paper. He drops coins in his bathtub and pretends that it is a bottomless well. He revisits the years, opens the photo album, and he will see Arthur, laughing, smiling, at times annoyed. But in the photos, they are together. Now, every day, he sits right next to Arthur, but Arthur always stands too far away. He grasps the tissue clover tighter and wishes that he never hesitated.

_Arthur walks_

in his palace gardens, and he sees a frog hopping. There is nothing so remarkable about that, for frogs are plentiful around ponds. But as Arthur approaches, the frog shimmers, and for a moment, a handsome young man stands in his place."Hello, Arthur," says the frog. "I think that you have dropped something precious in my pond."

"I don't remember dropping anything anywhere, frog."

"Precisely."

_The frog remembers_

that memories are precious and that people shouldn't go around dropping them into ponds, but that it what the king does every time. Every time he passes the boy who fades, he drops them, shimmering, glittering pearls and drops, melting into the pond, the frog Francis's pond, until he cannot swim without seeing the king's memories swimming inside his head. He has to dive deep to retrieve his own, and then he can remember that he was once like the king, once had hair like spun gold and eyes like drops of ocean water.

_The frog is a pest_

to Arthur, because the frog follows him around everywhere even though Arthur doesn't think that he dropped anything in the stupid frog's pond, although the frog keeps on going on about how Arthur is letting his life leak into the pond and it is making swimming difficult because memories are thick, and thick water is a pain to swim in. One dream, Arthur finally snaps.

"Alright, alright! I left something in your bloody pond, why do I care? You can have it! It's yours, and I don't _care_ if you think swimming in the pond is a pain because you're a frog, go get another fucking pond!"

The frog looks up at him indignantly and says, in a bloody _French accent_ (Arthur hates French people; they smell) "I do not want your memories, I have my own."

"Well then, give them back to me!" Arthur yells furiously. Why is this frog such an idiot? Then again, he _is_ talking to a frog, so he doesn't really think that he has a say in this matter.

The frog clucks a little, there is a glint in his eye Arthur doesn't like. He notices that the frog's eyes are shining blue, and he thinks that frogs aren't supposed to have blue eyes, especially not such a captivating shade. "It's not that simple, dear," he says.

_Alfred holds Arthur's hand in his_

as he is sleeping, and he wishes with all his might that it would help at least a little of him remain in Arthur's mind, that when Arthur wakes up there would at least be a flash of recognition in Arthur's eyes when he sees Alfred's face. He eyes the white sheets, the white curtains, the white hanging lamp and the white walls, and all the white is killing him. The room is blank, save for the two people inside it, and Alfred thinks, no wonder Arthur wakes up blank every day. He holds Arthur's hand a little tighter, waiting for him to open his eyes, for him to remember.

_Arthur can't believe_

that he would have to kiss a frog to get his memories back, when he doesn't think he even needs his memories, not when he has a kingdom sprawling below him, not when he feels perfectly fine without them. The frog doesn't stop pestering him, though, and maybe if Arthur kisses him the frog would go away. He almost vomits at the the thought. So on one walk, before he sees the young man, he holds the frog up, says "this is so I can get rid of you," and kisses the frog.

_Francis closes his eyes_

and that wonderful feeling comes again. It's almost love, Francis thinks, has a thrill just like it, fills him just like it, but it isn't the same. When Arthur drops him and turns away, disgusted with Francis, himself, or both of them, Francis can feel something change. He opens his eyes to see skin, human skin, and as he raises his hand to his head, he touches soft, silken threads of pale gold. He is also naked, he realizes. Arthur turns around, and his eyes widen like the moon, like the sun, like the green, green lilypads in Francis's green, green pond.

"Fucking hell," he says softly.

Francis is a man of his word, so he dives in the pond, and he surfaces with a handful of pearl-like things. "There are more."

Arthur is covering his eyes with his hand, frowning. "Go put on some clothes."

_They walk_

in the palace gardens, and suddenly Francis's pond seems a bit duller than it used to. Arthur ponders this, but decides not to ask Francis. He holds the pearls, and one by one, they disappear and melt into him. They see the waiting young man, who waves at Arthur, on cue. Suddenly, Arthur remembers who he is, although it's just a little out of reach. He remembers ice cream, sunny parks and rolling on the ground out of breath from laughing too much, and he waves back. The young man smiles wider. As they walk past, he does not fade.

_Arthur opens his eyes_

and Alfred lets go of his hand, and hopes. He looks up into Arthur's eyes, into green, green eyes, like water like leaves like magic. Alfred sees the recognition he was waiting for, and he can't breathe for a moment. "You..." Arthur said. "I think I know you."

Alfred grins, and almost jumps on him, almost kisses him, because this is more than Alfred had hoped. Only a little more, but to Alfred this is the only miracle that matters. "Ya do? Holy shit, Arthur, I've been waiting for so long! I... you remember my name, don't ya?"

"No," Arthur says, shaking his head, and Alfred feels an emptiness in his heart again. "But I think we were close. I don't know how close, but... how close could we be when you're this loud?" He sounds a little irritable, and Alfred laughs. No, much better to let Arthur remember on his own.

"That's the Arthur I know!" he says, offering Arthur a fist to pump. Arthur merely looks confused.

_Francis sits on the edge_

of Arthur's grand, royal-looking bed. He once slept here too. Once.

"I don't exactly like those things," Arthur says, "those... memories. They confuse me, but... I can... remember some things. I know now that there is such a thing as yesterday." Francis snorts, tucking some of his hair behind his ear. He is wearing some of the clothes Arthur managed to spare. They are peasant clothes, but Arthur refuses to give him anything more, and Francis does not pull the strings in the palace (anymore).

He turns, looks at Arthur sternly. "You will have to get used to them, or you will end up like I."

"Like you, frog?" Arthur asks, scrunching up his face as if he has just smelled something extremely foul. "I'd like to avoid that fate."

Francis frowns. "I am perfectly amazing, thank you."

He hears Arthur make a disgusted sound.

"Well, then you'll need all your other memories before the pond pulls you in and gives them to you," he says. He then looks at Arthur's face and realizes that maybe, maybe he could have a little fun. Maybe he could gain something from saving Arthur. "But it comes at a cost." He stands up and walks over, looking Arthur straight in the eye. "There is such a thing as yesterday, as there is a last week and a last month and a last year, but there is no such thing as getting it for free."

_Alfred waits for another miracle_

but it does not come, although Arthur certainly remembers him and his visits now. He can remember what happened the day before and the day before that, and the doctors say that it is, indeed, a miracle. They went through introductions, and Arthur now calls him by name, laughs at his jokes, writes him in his life. It's enough, enough for now, and it's more than enough to keep Alfred's love alive.

_Francis is insufferable,_

and he demands outrageous prices. Arthur had the guards kick him out when Francis said that they should sleep together if Arthur wanted his memories back, the nerve of him! He avoids the gardens now, does not walk by Francis's pond and only walks by to wave to the blond boy, now known as Alfred. He is mute, Arthur thinks, because he never says a word, but when the palace and the gardens and the kingdom fade, he doesn't.

_Arthur is still willing to talk_

to Francis, but they avoid talking to you-know-what as much as possible. Arthur finds it impossible to be away from Francis for too long, even though he is as annoying as hell. He always makes his way back to the green pond strewn with greener lilypads somehow. They talk and argue and try to kill each other for hours on end, but the kingdom is warmest when Francis is there. Whenever the waiting young man waves, it is warm too, but it's a strange warmth he can't remember the reason for. When he is with Francis, he doesn't _know_, but it feels more at home.

_Alfred listens_

as Arthur tells him stories about his dreams. Sometimes, Arthur lets slip something, a frog, a Francis, but he shakes his head and changes the topic to the weather whenever that happens. Alfred doesn't remember Arthur ever knowing a Francis. But they are dreams, so Alfred doesn't worry. It's a frog, anyway, so what harm can a frog do? Alfred listens to him talking about a palace and a kingdom and a mute young man who looks just like him, and when Arthur lets him, Alfred holds his hand.

_Arthur feels_

different now, talking to Francis. They still argue, of course, and Francis always tries to get into his royal pants, but Arthur can't help but get lost in Francis's eyes every once in a while. He starts giving Francis better clothes, starts treating Francis to royal banquets (all the chairs are empty, save for Arthur's and Francis's), starts drinking wine with him (although Arthur is more fond of beer). The air is thick whenever they catch each other's eyes, but Arthur finds that he does not mind.

_Alfred tries not to ask questions_

whenever 'Francis' comes up, but his curiosity gets to him. One day he asks, "So, who is this Francis frog you're talking about and why don't I know him?"

Arthur looks at him as though he, too, is a frog. "Why would you? And he's just a frog," he says, and then adds under his breath, "such a fucking bother." Arthur's face gets a bit red, though, and Alfred widens his eyes. So his best friend has a crush on a frog? Ridiculous! Arthur would never do something like that!

"Whatever you're thinking, that's not it. Although if you were thinking that he is a bloody prat and I would very much like to get him out of my head when I'm sleeping, you're correct," Arthur says, narrowing his eyes. "But wait," Arthur mumbles, studying him. "You _should_ know him. I walk past you with him all the time! Granted, you never _talk_ when we do that, so that might have not been you..."

Alfred is afraid that his best friend might be delusional.

_Francis takes Arthur's hand_

and leads him to his bedroom, because Arthur looks so tired today, even though Francis is sure nothing major happened. Maybe a riot? Francis doesn't know. He doesn't hear about those things. He feels Arthur rest his head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed with what seems to be exhaustion. Arthur opens the door and collapses on his bed, looking up blankly at the ceiling. "Come in."

"What? Arthur-"

"I said _come in_, frog," Arthur hisses, and Francis is happy to oblige. He walks and sits on the edge of Arthur's bed like he did last time, except this time he didn't get to do it very long, because Arthur pulls him down by the arm so that Francis is lying next to him. Francis doesn't pull away when Arthur touches his face unlike a mere acquaintance or friend would. Instead, he smiles.

"What can I do for His Majesty?"

Arthur growls at him, green eyes alight with flames that Francis would identify as lust if it wasn't so outrageous. "I want to know," Arthur whispers. "I want to know last week, last month, last years. And I'll do what it takes."

_Alfred ponders_

and goes back through time, through yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that, and so on, and grips the four-leaf clover in his hand. He closes his eyes and imagines the chance he didn't take back then. Did Arthur feel the same? Even if he did, what about now? What would he say, what would he think, if this person he's only known for a few months suddenly confesses his love for him? Alfred rolls over and opens his eyes, imagining Arthur next to him, Arthur peacefully sleeping.

He does not sleep.

_Arthur is lost_

in an unfamiliar feeling, a rush of adrenaline, and he assumes Francis is too. They're one, two but one, and Arthur feels like he could burn from the heat. He remembers something called love, something called passion, something called ecstasy. It's not the memories he wants, he realizes. It's Francis.

_Francis opens his eyes_

to sunshine streaming through stained-glass windows, painting a rose on the sheets. He is alone in the room, and he realizes with a start, of course Arthur isn't here. After all, you don't fall asleep when you already are sleeping. Francis sighs and gets up, lifting his clothes from the floor. He can wait. He will wait.

_Arthur finds himself_

awake, in the middle of a dark room, moonlight streaming in from the window. It is a completely different bed, a completely different room, and it's awfully cold. He reaches around, but he doesn't feel Francis anywhere, and suddenly it's that much colder. He pulls the unfamiliar covers over himself, shivering. Arthur doesn't think that he is the kind of person who would be vulnerable to chilly weather, but what the hell. He feels another shiver run through him as he realizes that it was just a dream. He desperately wishes it wasn't. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

_Alfred holds on_

to his hope and his love, to his feelings, to his memories. He tries to will, tries to will this night to be a miracle, tries to wish Arthur's memories back. He grips the sheets desperately, praying and hoping, and counting the fallen stars he's wished a upon. Too many, but he needs them. He searches an endless field for more four-leaf clovers, although all he finds is nightshade.

_Francis lets go_

of everything he feels, of everything he's learned. If he is to give Arthur what he promised, then he has to give him up, because he knows no one who has survived ever comes back. Francis doesn't want to, and he is half-tempted to keep Arthur, to keep love. When Arthur touches his arm and Francis realizes he's there again, he almost feels like shushing him and betraying his promise. But he doesn't, because Francis is a man of his word. "Do you want your memories?"

"I don't know, Francis, I... I'm content with being here," Arthur says, and Francis notices that he's actually fully clothed. Francis kisses his forehead. "What if I stay?"

Francis hesitates. He _does _want him to stay. He _needs_ him to stay."This is not the real world."

Arthur frowns. "I'm happy here."

Good, Francis thinks. Good, be happy here so you can stay with me forever, so that you will fade, just like me, just like me.

"There are people waiting for you on the other side. Do it for them, if you will not do it for yourself. You mean the world to some of them," Francis says softly. Arthur means the world to him, too, but maybe it is because Francis doesn't have a world. No, Arthur is a real person, living and breathing, and Francis is just a lost soul. Arthur deserves someone of real flesh and blood, not a shade or a ghost.

The king narrows his eyes. "You of all people should know that I am a selfish man."

Francis laughs. "I do know," he says.

_Alfred dreams_

of Arthur waking up to remember him, of Arthur's laughter, of everything Arthur doesn't remember. He's lost, he realizes, in Arthur's green eyes, and then suddenly, he's sitting on a bench. It's cold, made out of stone, but intricately decorated, and the bench is located right in front of a green, green pond with green, green lilypads. He looks up to the sky so blue, he looks around to see trees and flowers and... Arthur?

Arthur is walking down a stone path, holding hands with a handsome man, his blond hair in a ponytail, his smile sad. Arthur looks apprehensive, scared, even, and it looks like he's gripping the other man's hand tightly. He's wearing very regal-looking clothes, clothes of kingdoms from the past. Their mouths move, but Alfred can't hear anything, and when he tries to call out to Arthur, he finds out that he can't say anything, either. He just grins and waves at Arthur, who waves back but doesn't smile. They walk past. Alfred can't get up.

_Arthur looks away, and then looks back_

to see that Francis is crying, and he asks why. Francis shakes his head. "No. I will not regret this. This is what you deserve."

Arthur presses him from answers, but he does not get any. Francis smiles and takes his hand, touching Arthur's cheek. "I love you," he says, and Arthur's eyes widen, like the moon, like the sun, like the green, green lilypads in the green, green pond. Arthur wraps his arms around Francis's waist and kisses him, and there are a thousand things that run through his head. When he breaks away, he pulls the ribbon off Francis's hair and runs his hands through it, closing his eyes. "I love you too," Arthur says softly.

Francis smiles again, and he kisses Arthur again, and Arthur cannot figure out why he is crying. "Why the fuck are you crying, frog?"

"I shouldn't be so selfish, I suppose. I want you all to myself," Francis says. "Before this, I would have give in."

_Alfred wants to scream_

when he sees them kissing, and he doesn't need to be an expert at reading lips to know what Arthur said. Arthur's lover is crying. Alfred claws at his hair out in frustration, because he knows he should be happy for Arthur and why is he angry this is just a dream dammit. Alfred squeezes his eyes shut, and the world, the garden, Arthur, his lover, the green, green lilypads on the green, green pond fade around him. He opens his eyes and realizes his pillow is wet. It's not because he was drooling. Alfred doesn't drool.

_Arthur holds on_

to Francis as they dive into icy-cold water. The water shimmers and Arthur finds that he can open his eyes underwater, and what he finds isn't water, isn't an underwater landscape, but something akin to a film reel. He sees Alfred, Alfred and himself, they're together, laughing, walking, studying, doing almost everything together. He doesn't see Francis there, and it makes him want to scream, where is he? Where is he? Why isn't he there?

He looks at Francis, who smiles sadly. "This was your life," he says, and Arthur only hears it in his mind. Francis's lips don't move. "You deserve it back."

Francis reaches out with both hands and holds Arthur closer, and he warms the water around them a little. Suddenly, Arthur feels his chest tighten, and the shimmering water around him shifts, from his to Francis's to Alfred's face to a thousand pearls, changes and changes before his very eyes. "Please stay calm, Arthur," Francis says in his mind again. "You will be fine."

His lungs are starting to burn, and Arthur can't breathe, he can't breathe, he feels flames in his chest. They roar, hungry, and Arthur lets go of the air he was holding. He claws at Francis, to let go, but Francis holds on tightly, still in a loving embrace. Arthur sees stars for all the wrong reason, and he thinks, at least if he dies here, he will die in Francis's arms. Besides, he can always fall asleep to go back.

_Francis holds Arthur closer_

and he feels as if he is in a pool of his own tears. The waters are murky, dull, and they threaten to take Arthur away from him and never give him back (not that Arthur was ever his to begin with). The water grows colder every second, and he looks into Arthur's eyes to see pain. He wants to let go and let Arthur be lost in this neverending fantasy. Arthur wouldn't mind. Francis wouldn't mind.

...No, he made this decision. It has to happen. Arthur must go back where he belong. He must drown in his own memories, to take them back in and give up his memories of his kingdom, or his dreams, of his Francis. He doesn't need them, Francis knows.

"Thank you," he says softly, mournfully, "for making me feel human again."

_Arthur wakes from a dream,_

a dream he remembers to be pleasant at first, but he also remembers fear and pain at the end, he remembers flames. He can picture in his mind a picturesque garden, a beautiful palace, and an even more beautiful man. He can't recall his name or anything else, though, although Arthur also remembers pearls and the color green, and the color taints the blank white walls of the room, the pearls seem to be rolling on the floor. It's odd. Even though it is fading in his mind, he can still picture the reassuring smile of someone he can't recall.

He wakes and turns and sees Alfred, the Alfred he's known for years, the Alfred he so dearly cares for, the Alfred who always makes him feel like he needs something more. Alfred.

"Arthur! Morning!" Alfred says cheerfully, and Arthur turns red. He always does when he's around Alfred. He tries not to, but of course, it's futile.

Arthur looks at him, and decides that it is rather odd that he is in this room, and that Alfred is waiting here for him to... wake up? Why is Alfred here? "What are you doing here?" he asks. Alfred looks confused and looks away sheepishly, turning red as well.

"I was waiting for you, to, you know, remember," Alfred says quietly. Arthur looks at him strangely.

He decides that Alfred thinks that Arthur has forgotten some weird day like the anniversary of the first time they got drunk together, the first time they went on a double date, or something. "What's there to remember? Is this one of your odd Arthur and Alfred holidays? Maybe instead of hoping I'd remember all the ridiculous dates you'd find the time to mark a calendar and give it to me."

Alfred looks stunned. "You remember that?"

Arthur decides that Alfred is simply being an idiot again and says through gritted teeth, "Of course I bloody remember it, why wouldn't I? Lord, Alfred."

He didn't expect to Alfred jump and hug him as if he's just woken up from the dead.

_Francis surfaces alone_

without Arthur, and he lies on the bank, closing his eyes. Already he feels as if someone has just ripped his heart out and stomped on it a hundred time, and it doesn't help when he knows that he himself did it. "Oh, Arthur," he says to himself, "what will I do without you?" He laughs, like a madman, to the empty sky. He sighs and eyes the pond hatefully, as if it is the cause of all of his misery (in a way, it is). Francis slips back into the water, as if he hopes that the murky green waters will claim him as it did Arthur.

_Alfred cries with joy_

as he holds Arthur in his arms. "Holy shit, you remember me! Arthur, you're back! You're back, and I don't wanna ever take that risk. I've gotta tell you now, you know? I... I regretted it so much when it happened, and shit, Arthur, you're... back," his voice gets quieter and quieter as he speaks, and he sees that Arthur looks astonished. Alfred smiles and takes a deep breath.

"I love you."

_Arthur smiles back_

and says, "I love you too." He is overcome with a sense of déjà vu, and the words are not strange, although Arthur dismisses it. He's dreamed about this moment enough. He looks into Alfred's blue, blue eyes, and he feels as if he's seen this, in another life. A life he doesn't remember.

_Francis walks_

down the rocky path he and Arthur used to walk down. It's been a long, long time. The sky does not cease to be blue, the garden does not cease to be beautiful. Francis is now the king (after all, they need a sane being to command the kingdom, and to make sure no outsiders come it. The Alice incident will _not_ be repeated, he's told the two queens), and he walks down the way Arthur used to walk every day, gazing at the green, green pond and sometimes taking a swim, trying to find a sliver of Arthur left. He finds none.

One day, he is walking down the rocky path when he sees two people on a bench. It's unmistakable, that face, those eyes, those _eyebrows. _Francis feels a dull ache in his chest, at the sight, and he reaches out, only to remember what Arthur doesn't. Next to what looks to be Arthur is the mute young man, and their hands are intertwined. "Arthur," Francis says hoarsely, only manages to croak out (like a frog). But they do not hear (he wonders if they are deaf, too), and the mute young man's hand in Arthur's reminds Francis of what was never his. Francis walks past, but they do not fade.

_They are_

victims of another fairytale. The water is green and the lilypads are green, and the frog stands, dreaming of the king, who is the lover of the waiting man.

_And so ends the story of the king, the frog, and the waiting man._

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**No, I will not explain what happened to Arthur. Some of writing's magic lies in the things it does not explain.**

**I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry about the weirdness.**

**Typos fixed! :)**


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